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Chapter 30

August 1989

L
et me introduce to you Mr and Mrs Peter Myers,” Peter’s best man and brother, Jeff, announced as we stepped into the reception room. Immediately, everyone stood; half of them held up their arms straight into the air, waving their hands, while the other half clapped. Those who clapped quickly caught on to the Deaf way to applaud.

Peter and I held hands as we walked over to the long head table and took our seats. The wedding party was seated in one row; groomsmen on the left and bridesmaids on the right. In front of us were round tables filled with our guests. We had a good view of everyone: relatives (mostly from my side), Mom and Dad’s friends, high school classmates, and a very few of Peter’s friends from college.

As soon as we seated ourselves, the guests at the Deaf table began swirling their cloth napkins in the air.

Peter and I looked at each other and smiled, knowing that this ritual would continue throughout the night. We exchanged a kiss, a brief yet tender one.

The napkins immediately went up in the air again, waving wildly. Apparently, the kiss they had witnessed was not enough. They wanted more. A show, perhaps. This time, Peter pulled me up from my chair, draped his left arm around my back, held my head with his right hand and bent me backward. His face met mine and he kissed me, this time more passionately. Everyone cheered and returned to their conversations among themselves.

It was my special day, yet in the back of my mind, I was worried. I was aware of how difficult the day must have been for
him
. I also felt bad for all the kissing he had to witness.

Guilt is such a burden. It can cripple us. I felt responsible for what had happened, and I’d need a little over ten years to finally let go of the guilt.

Chapter 31

Fall 1986 – Sophomore Year

I
had survived my freshman year. I found myself once again packing my belongings for another year at Gallaudet. Mom and Dad knew nothing about my unhappiness. They did not question my reasons for coming home frequently. To satisfy any curiosity, though, I simply told them that I didn’t drink, smoke, or party, which was true. Of course, they didn’t know the other reason.

During my sophomore year I felt numb and disconnected from everything.

I did not cry much.

I did not keep a journal.

I did not participate in any campus activities.

I gave up playing basketball, my favorite sport.

I ate my meals alone, showing up at the cafeteria during the nonpeak hours.

I sat in the library by the window during the day, watching everyone pass by.

I lived for Fridays. I would meet him on my way home, always planning around his schedule. We would meet at the park-and-ride for our hour together.

I dreaded Sundays. I would return to school late into the night, already counting the days until Friday.

I allowed my grades to drop. The first year, I had maintained a 3.31 cumulative grade point average. My second year, my GPA dropped to an unspectacular 3.0.

I remember
nothing
about that year except for my daily trips to the local convenience store.

How could a person so popular and carefree have fallen into a bottomless pit in just a few years? I was more isolated than I ever thought possible.

Chapter 32

Fall 1986 – Spring 1987

I
walked across the campus to the parking lot where my car was parked. With a car of my own, an older-model Buick my great-uncle had passed on to me, I could now go off campus as I pleased. I got in the car and decided to drive around DC for a while before parking at my usual spot by the High’s.

It was still early when I pulled into “my” spot. It was 7:45 p.m. and the sky had begun to get dark. The darker, the better; Gallaudet students wouldn’t recognize me if they happened to come by the store. When they did, I would make sure I sat low in my seat or kept my head down, pretending to be doing something. I looked at my watch; it was only 8:03 p.m. and it was going to be a very long night. I usually remained at High’s until late into the night, 9:30 p.m. or so, before returning to campus. I would then slip into my room, pretending I had been out having a good time.

Sometimes I would bring something to read, usually a magazine, or work on my homework assignments to help pass the time. Other times, I would observe people as they walked in and out of High’s, always interesting to look at. More often than not, I found myself wondering about life and fantasizing about death.

. . . I got out of the car, not paying attention, when a car sped by, hitting me. I flew into the air, my head hitting the curb as I landed on the pavement several feet away. People came running to me, shouting: “Someone call 911.” I was bleeding badly when the paramedics arrived, trying to rescue me. It was too late. A sheet covered my body and face as they wheeled me into the ambulance.

. . . I was in High’s looking for something sweet to eat when everyone shouted, “Get down.” I didn’t hear them, and as I pulled out a pint of my favorite ice cream from the freezer I felt something sharp hit my chest. I had been shot. I collapsed on the floor. After the masked guy fled, the customers screamed: “Someone help her.”

. . . Mom and Dad opened their front door and realized something was wrong. The gentlemen had solemn expressions on their faces when they asked: “Is your daughter Debbie Anderson?” Mom had replied: “Yes.” The visitors then said: “We’re sorry to tell you this, but your daughter has been killed.”

. . . People stood in the long line, patiently waiting their turn to see me in a coffin: My family. My relatives. Mom and Dad’s friends. My high school friends. And everyone who knew me from MSD (teachers, coaches, and staff). Everyone moved slowly. When they reached the coffin, they commented, “She was a sweet girl.” “She didn’t deserve to die like this.” And “I wish I had gotten to know her better.”

How I wished I could die. How peaceful that would be. There would be no more tears. No more pain either. I certainly wanted to die, but I couldn’t kill myself. Not because I was scared, but because that would be a sign of weakness.

Weakness was something Mom mocked and perhaps even despised. If I committed suicide, that would imply I was weak and not strong enough to make it through life. As strange as it may sound, it also meant that Mom would win. And there was no way I was going to let her do that.

Chapter 33

April 1987

I
stared at the paper posted on the wall. Had I read it correctly? I placed my finger on the line where my name was spelled out and slid my finger toward the right, where my internship site was listed. Next to my name was
S.C.H.I., TX
. What was going on? It had to be a mistake.

I had applied for several summer internships – two in Washington, DC, and a few others I couldn’t remember. I really didn’t care as long as I could get out of here and keep myself busy for the summer.

I walked into my internship placement counselor’s office. The minute she saw me, she said, “Congratulations.”

“There is a mistake with my internship,” I said.

“What mistake?” She flipped through her papers until she found my information. “Your internship is at Southwest Center for the Hearing Impaired.”

“Right. Here in DC. The paper says Texas.”

“No,” she said looking at the paper. “It’s actually in Texas.”

“Remember, I applied to two places in DC,” I reminded her. We had met several weeks earlier to discuss potential internship sites.

“That’s right, you did. You also applied to several others.”

“I know. But my phone conversation last week was with the agency in DC.”

“The agency you applied to is located in the southwest section of DC. They didn’t offer you an internship. The phone conversation you had last week was with Southwest Center for the Hearing Impaired,” she explained.

Then she suddenly figured out my confusion. “The word
southwest
must have gotten you mixed up,” she said.

Yes, I had mixed up the two places. I slowly sank into the chair. “So, I’m going to
Texas?
” I asked feebly.

“Yes.” She looked at me, a bit worried. “Is that okay? You had already told them you would take the job.”

That explained the interviewer’s first question as I replayed our phone conversation in my head. After introducing ourselves, the interviewer had asked if I was from Texas. I remember thinking what an odd question that was. But, I let it pass as he proceeded with more questions. In the end, he asked if I would like to accept the internship, and I said yes.

I walked out of the office dazed. I only had a few weeks before the semester was over, and I was supposed to begin my internship the first week of June. A plane reservation had to be made. What would Mom and Dad say? Texas was so far away. Would I be able to handle not seeing
him
for two months? So many questions filled my mind.

I had tried to escape the summer before. I had accepted an internship at Camp Harold F. Whittle in Fawnskin, California. Unfortunately, it was one of the loneliest times in my life. I didn’t realize I would be the only Deaf person on the staff; there was one other intern who was deaf, but she was not culturally Deaf. Besides, she was placed at another site of the camp. When I had considered the internship, I was told I would be working with a group of deaf campers, but when I arrived I learned that the deaf campers wouldn’t arrive until the end of the summer.

After barely two weeks at the camp, loneliness overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t handle it. My year at Gallaudet had been better than this; at least I had full access to communication. Tension at home had been better than this. My limited time with him had been better than this.

I wanted to go home. My dilemma: I had no money to purchase a one-way return ticket. I couldn’t ask Mom or Dad; they wouldn’t have the money. In desperation, I called
him,
hoping he would be able to rescue me. He did.

After announcing the news to Mom and Dad about my summer plans in San Antonio, Mom was skeptical. “You won’t stay. You will want to come home. Remember last year,” she said with a smirk.

Perhaps she was right. I didn’t know. What I did know was that I needed to leave – Gallaudet, home, and him.

Chapter 34

April 1987

I
sat in the car, waiting. He was supposed to meet me at 4:00 p.m., and it was a few minutes past. Our time together was always short, and I wanted him to hurry so that we could have as much time as possible together. As soon as I saw his car approaching, my heart quickened. When he pulled into a parking spot, I jumped out of the car and waited for him to walk over. We each took a quick glance around our surroundings to ensure that nobody was watching before getting into the backseat of my car.

Like always, we shut the door and fell into each other’s arms – each of us holding on for dear life. In his arms, I felt so safe and loved. And then, my head resting on his shoulder, I looked up to him and said: “I want you to make love to me.”

He looked at me in surprise. “Are you sure?” he asked. We had talked about it in the past but had never crossed the line. I was a virgin and had every intention of remaining one until I was married. But, today, I had a different plan.

“Yes, I’d like for you to make love to me,” I repeated.

“There’s nothing more I’d want in this world than to make love to you. I’d be honored.”

“Then, let’s do it,” I said.

He cupped my face in his hand and kissed me tenderly. He then looked into my eyes and shook his head. “Not in the car. You deserve better than that,” he said.

Unbeknownst to him, I had made plans.

I was going to leave him this time, for good. I knew, I thought, that I would never find anyone else, or get married, for that matter. So, because I was leaving him, I wanted my virginity to be taken by someone I loved; a sweet memory I would hold dearly in my heart.

I was also hoping against all odds that I would get pregnant. I would then remain in Texas after the internship to raise our child alone. He needn’t know. He had a family of his own. With our child, I would have a part of him with me always.

The thought of leaving him was so very difficult; when I thought about it, I wept. But I knew one thing for certain, I just couldn’t go on living this way. The hiding and sneaking had taken its toll on me. Knowing he had a wife to go home to every time we departed confused me. I understood his need to keep his family together for the sake of his children who were a few years younger than me. But if he really loved me, how could a few extra minutes spent with me hurt his children? If he would rather be with me than with his wife, why couldn’t he find the excuses necessary to stay a bit longer?

My eyes swelled with tears, as always, as the time approached for him to go home. Our last few minutes together were spent in each other’s arms. I cried, and he tried to comfort me, telling me not to cry, and that he would try to stay a bit longer the next time we saw each other. Then, it was time for him to leave.

But not before we made plans to meet – at his home.

Chapter 35

August 1989

O
ur two-tier wedding cake was not supposed to look the way it did.

I couldn’t remember when we had checked on the cake. Was it the night before, or a few hours before our wedding? But when we did, I was horrified. “This is not what I ordered,” I said. Had Peter misunderstood me when we placed an order? He was the one who voiced for me, after all.

The Italian baker, who was also the owner, had added his own touches without my permission – blue frosted flowers on the top of the cake. I wanted to tell him to scrape off the frosting and do the job all over again.

“Let’s just forget it,” Peter said. “It isn’t that bad, really.” I thought the baker’s touches ruined everything but decided to let it go.

On the top we had placed a wedding figurine that Mom and Dad had used on their wedding cake. People commented on the antique when they saw it. As people gathered around the cake to witness its cutting, I immediately noticed something was missing.

“K-n-i-f-e,” I fingerspelled, low enough so no one except Peter could see. Peter was clueless. “Knife,” I repeated. “Where is it?”

Peter whispered to a wedding attendee in the reception room and a knife was brought in. A plain standard piece of silverware from the same set with which everyone had eaten during our reception. That was not the knife I was referring to. The wedding knife that I had purchased was nowhere to be found.

We had no choice but to proceed with our agenda. We cut the cake in two slices and placed them on two napkins that read:
This is the day I will marry my friend.

Holding the cake on a napkin in my left hand, I looked at Peter mischievously. “Ready?” I asked. Peter glanced at me, not trusting me. How I loved to tease.

In a slow motion, we brought cake toward each other, not trusting what one would do to the other. As soon as Peter opened his mouth to receive the cake, I smeared it all over his mouth. He returned the gesture.

And we laughed so hard.

Everyone raved about the cake after they were served. Inside was a rum filling the baker had promised would delight everyone.

“Rum?” I had asked when we discussed our order. I didn’t drink and didn’t want alcohol served during our wedding.

“You can’t taste it,” the baker had assured me.

“The alcohol will evaporate when it is being baked,” Peter explained.

“Trust me, everyone raves about this filling,” the baker added. “You won’t be disappointed.”

But I was.

Oddly, when it came to the cake, misfortunes continued. First, it was the extra touches to the icing. Then, the wedding knife was missing. And despite the ravings, I didn’t like the rum filling. Finally, several weeks later, the professional photographer regretfully informed us that the pictures of our cake exchange didn’t come through. Go figure.

Disappointments happen. Misfortunes occur. Life has its share of adversity, but, as long as we have true joy, they cannot dampen our spirit.